Just
by Bon Katze
Summary: Peeta and Cato attempt to make sense of their feelings under the guise of cold weather and a single sleeping bag. Companion to We Two Boys. peeto, peetato, peetaxcato


It's cold. You are pressed against a body, large and unyielding, clinging within the confines of a capitol-made thermal sleeping bag sized for one. You are pretending the subtle grazes of skin, of lips accidentally sweeping your forehead, of eye contact through layers of blonde lashes mean nothing. You pretend this is all nothing. When he slips an arm around your waist, and you shift to better fit within the fold of his arms, you make excuses, all manner of them, and promise that this is all necessary for the comfortable distribution of space within the sleeping bag. You pretend the other sleeping bag, strewn in the corner, forgotten and crisp with the chill does not exist, nor did it ever exist, and this was born of a very kosher sort of desperation.

"Just to keep warm," he says. You nod, your fingers clutching at his exposed arms, bitten finger nails making purchase and grounding you; Perhaps the only thing that keeps you tethered here, where some extinguished hope attempts to glow among the ashes of the life you are watching burn. You think of bread, of bricks and mortar disintegrating, of the inexhaustible nature of coal and the people in the mines and of the funerals, endless parades of macabre black and soot, which makes you think of how trivial the bread seems, burning, burning, charred, and you, watching, anticipating the marks your mother will leave later, and your eyes flickering to each new blossoming patch of inedible crust, unmoving, waiting, warm beside the oven.

"Yeah," you say. "Just to keep warm." Permission. Subtext, you think, and let him have this, to keep warm with. He's straining, your back dipping into him, your body angled submissively. You think of wrestling, of your brothers, twice your size and without mercy, of unnatural angles and pent up frustration, of promises and subtext, of whispers, "no gay stuff," and "friendly fight," and quick, tentative responses, "yeah; yes."

You do not think of Katniss. Not of her hollow bird-bones, not of holding her, clipping her wings, nor caging her. You do not think of injustice, or bows; not of burnt loaves or rain, not of small hands and eyes darkened with hunger, not of sickness and emaciation and hurt. You do not think of Katniss then, not of Katniss now, not of the Katniss you'd like to know – inconsequential, in the scheme of what has become. It's sick foreshadowing, your father, and his metaphorical death with the marriage of your mother, and you, and Katniss, and the birds that stop to listen when she sings, and your inevitable death and misguided rescue attempts. You do not think of any of this.

You think of this: You think of fingertips with no feelings, burns and worn away fingerprints. You think of the work your stylists put into your cuticles, and the tips of your nails, and how very little you care. You think of your muscles, and the way they are grinding your bones in the manner you grind wheat, and how perpetually sore you are, of lifting sacks of flour and thinking how not unlike lifting this boy it is. You think of Cato, frightened, pressed into you, screaming for dominance, maneuvering you, sculpting you, and you allowing it the way you mother never allowed you to cling to her breast for longer than she deemed acceptable. You think of the way Cato holds you now, your head against his chest, his chin grinding against the crown of your head, and the patterns his fingers trace into your back, deftly avoiding scar tissue, grazing sensitive areas as if to apologize for wrongs he had no part in.

"I'm cold," you say. You've got to learn to stop stating the obvious. Cato mumbles ascent, whether to your inner thoughts or not, you do not think rationally anymore. This seems rational; sane. To be here with this boy is natural, and willed by some divine power that only could have allowed the circumstances for this. This is beauty among death, among chaos and ruin and insanity. This is canon, private and tucked away. You are thankful for the privacy awarded within the tent, where cameras allow some semblance of false dignity here where there is no such thing.

Cato's touches have increased in purpose. Each graze of fingertips is now placed precisely, and one arm is curled around your back, palm resting on the back of your upper thigh, where muscles meet. He kneads the flesh, as if searching for some unattainable comfort in your body. You tilt your head up and meet his lips, searching, your body moving against his. You stop thinking about how wrong you've been taught this is. You let it happen, and when he asks, terror lacing his words, "Just tonight," as if trying to convince himself he has not sinned, you nod and breathe and say, again, "yes."

You are tired. You allow yourself to stop thinking. You stop thinking, start feeling.

And finally, finally, you are warm.


End file.
